


Awakenings

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Mention of Rosie - Freeform, Season 4 Compliant but it doesn't matter, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Sleepy morning musings from under the covers on Baker Street.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56





	Awakenings

From within the depths of slumber, light enough to be not fully asleep, deep enough to be quite relaxed, John surfaces. Awareness comes slowly. He is perfectly warm. An inhale of still air, an exhale around his usual morning stuffiness. A stretch, muscles mostly supple and loose, the mattress beneath supportive and firm.

Quick to engage without physically responding, he breathes steadily, slowly, evenly, taking stock as his mind wanders from within the cocoon of the bed linens.

He does not take lightly the bliss, the satisfaction of a gentle awakening. His history, more remotely as an army doctor with call obligations and instant on requirements, more recently, father to now four-year-old Rosie, has necessitated the ability to awaken quickly. The skill, needed or not, remains.

This time, though, it is not an emergency. There is no air raid siren, no urgent call to the medical building, no screaming toddler, no piercing call that Rosie has had a (thankfully rare) nightmare. There is no call of his body - loo, food, leg cramp. No outdoor summons of emergency services, no kerbside noise of an auto accident or the annoyed horn blaring of some other impatient sod, and no building catastrophe of squealing pipes or no heat or structural problem. There is no Greg Lestrade pounding on the door with a fist trying to locate or enlist or recruit Sherlock for duty. No alarms that something happened to Sherlock, either. There are no tingles that something is wrong, that intrinsic radar or activated intuition.

Something, however, has awakened him. This time, John determines, it is the cautious feather-light touch of Sherlock's toes - warm, long, tentative - under the covers gently traversing his bare ankle, skimming along his calf, discovering contour and position.

Over the years, they've been flatmates of various stages: newly met almost strangers, inquisitive, and energetic. Uncertain of each other. Becoming actual friends. Years happened, and happenings happened, crimes solved and changes to circumstance. They've changed their relationship and even their living arrangements - and have moved through phases of grief, estrangement, travel, relocation, and they are now back to flatmates. And more. Partners ... bedmates. Friends with benefits at a minimum. The exact commitment, arrangement, dynamics, have not been officially and formally unpacked. But they'd fallen together after a case, one that stretched them and stressed them, coming together in relief, gratitude - finally - in a whirlwind of hands and mouths and hand jobs in the bloody hallway for gods sake after John had assured himself that Rosie was sleeping.

Thank goodness she was on that particular night - and continues to be - a deep sleeper.

They share more than the flat - now the bedroom, the same bed, the same pillow occasionally. It feels like forever to John; in reality it has only been a few weeks. The longing that had preceded it, well, had been brewing a very long time. Brewing like the tea they share - a carefully timed blend of all the right things. Dependable. And though he probably will not speak the word, the romantic in him knows it is just the right amount of sweet. It feels settled, as if all the years and the histories and the hurts are resolving, the emptiness and uncertainty part of the past.

It is completely new, foreign, and a somewhat intriguing frontier for Sherlock to explore. Sharing bodies, sharing feelings, sharing space - in many ways uncharted.

The brush of toes on his calf is not the first time he's been subjected to this type of study in the wee hours of the night. Sometimes it is the faint sensation of being sniffed, just lightly, that deep inhale of curiosity, of appreciation. Occasionally it is tasting, the faint warmth of tongue that John only becomes aware of as it cools once he's done being sampled. One time it was quite too much, unexpected, the sudden and too-aggressive suction of Sherlock's mouth over John's pectoral muscle, his nipple. Whilst asleep. The startled and defensive awakening then had surprised them both. _Bit not good_ , John had eventually hissed with a few curse words interspersed. "I could have bloodied your nose!" His broken words, forceful and clear: it'd be risky to do that again.

There had been some giggling after, though, which had led to some other activities.

And so that particular ambush had been thwarted, for which John later considered himself fortunate. Heaven only knew what a curious, unboundaried Sherlock would investigate next unannounced. John suspected, chagrined, that it could possibly - at some point - have involved a long finger and somewhere extremely personal. The lesson had been timely.

The toes on his calf wriggle slightly on their quest for the extra-warm spot behind John's knee and there the movement ceases. But only for a moment before there is some movement on the mattress and the air behind him, the space between them gets a little warmer as Sherlock moves close, closer.

"I know you're awake," Sherlock's whisper is low, a little gruff, his voice rough from nighttime underuse.

"Hmmm," John responds sleepily, the end of the word going up in a question. He turns his head to look over his shoulder, the pillow and duvet narrowing his view, eclipsing Sherlock's profile. Sherlock is watching, intent, studying.

"Your breathing changed almost immediately. Deeper. Quicker. More tidal volume. Less autonomic."

John feels Sherlock's toes wriggle a bit, tucking in between his leg and the linens. "And I know you're curious." In the dim light, John blinks, angles slightly so that he can reach out a hand toward Sherlock under the covers. His fingers splay, find Sherlock's forearm, and he loosely closes his hand around it. Under the skin, he feels radius, ulna, muscles that are firm, shifting a bit in the normal tension, strong and solid. He sighs again and gives permission. "You can, you know. Touch." Sherlock remembers, of course, the previous time and John's directive. "I'm awake, it's fine."

With a slow roll of his spine, synchronous with a deep breath, using his shoulders and a nudge with his calves, John turns his entire body, rolling and reaching his arm to cross over Sherlock's waist, enveloping them both in the haven of the covers, nestling lightly into each other.

For a few moments, some adjustments are made - John's knee, Sherlock's thigh, several shoulders, and finally John tugs the pillow down so that he is resting more over that than Sherlock's clavicle. "Mmmm. Nice."

John's eyes close as he feels himself relax even as Sherlock twitches a little as he shifts some more. Slowly, gingerly, long fingers creep smoothly along the dip of John's waist, traverse along his side toward his ribs. From there, splayed fingertips work their way up, searching lightly as they brush the edges of his scar, the exit wound from long ago. The caress is slow over well-healed and still slightly desensitised scar tissue and moves then along the surrounding skin as if offering a balm, comfort, and healing. Smiling into Sherlock's skin, John whispers, "That feels nice."

"It didn't always."

"True." The fingers dabble at the center again, the puckered skin, carefully brushing at it with the intent to memorise, to know. "Mmm," he sighs again, a soft whisper. "I like that."

The exploring hand shifts to the back of John's head, gently and lovingly, drawing John's head closer to the space between them. Sherlock angles his own head, presses uncertain lips against John's temple and rests there for a few moments. Warm exhales heat the air between them, their breathing synchronises. Their bodies settle deeper together, comfortably intimate. Just before John drifts off in slumber once more, he is vaguely aware of the lightest brush of Sherlock's thumb against the back of his shoulder. He burrows in, savouring the stillness. And the sweet, _sweet_ contentment.

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed a little sweetness
> 
> some comfort without the hurt
> 
> the peace of waking up together.


End file.
